Severus Snape: Changed
by FourthHallow
Summary: Post DH. Everything is how it is in the books, except Severus Snape. Here he lives. Damaged, but alive. How does he deal with being called a hero and incapability to do basic things? Read to find out.


He loaths himself, perhaps even more than before, so much he hates every shallow breath he takes, every flicker of pity cast towards him. He loaths their glances, warmth. It is unbearable, even worse than the constant throbbing pain in his neck. Pain never ceased. Sometimes he reaches with his hand to touch the wound,only to remind himself once again that he's alive, to stain his long pale fingers with crimson blood. The wound couldn't heal completely. He doesn't care. That was just another of his scars set for him to bare until death. Just another mistake of his.

People admire him. Or was that just the pity for him? Pity for a poor wounded hero. They once said he was a hero. He sneered back at them, not wanting to be called that way. He distanced himself even more from people. His incapability though was another burden. A burden more awful than any task before, than any curse he had to take. Or invent. He became dependable on other people, people he hated so much. Never before was he a part of their world, why should he be now? Still, he knows that he needs them. He knew that since one time in his class, when his hands shook and a vial was dropped, shattered on the cold floor, just like his pride. He stopped making potions. He couldn't make them anymore.

Once he wanted to poison himself, to end this misery called life. He barely completed the most simple killing potion he could remember, but when he took the vial and tried to drink it's content, he dropped it. That clinging sound reminded him of someone's laughter, someone's warm voice. He could've even hear the words from the broken glass. _Don't do it._ And he tried no more. He would do anything for that voice.

No one laughed at him anymore. But it was no longer fear that kept them from making rude comments and talking behind his back. It was pity. How could anyone ever insult a poor broken human being, with pale face and dark cirles around his eyes? It is hard to sleep. The nightmares keep him awake, making sure he relives all his worst moments in his life. Sometimes he would wake up in pain only to find his neck bleeding again.

He can't even stride the corridors as he once could. Yes, he could move himself without anyone's help, but the limping bothers him. He knows that once he was bitten by a dog. Or three dogs?His muscles are not as they once were. His hands tremble so much that he has trouble performing simple things, like opening the book or lifting a cup to his lips.

He can't intimidate his students anymore. His voice is not the same as before. No longer he has that silky voice of his, that ability to make snarky comments. Yes, he can talk, but he hates it. Every time he ends up scared of his own voice, not recognizing it. It is not his voice anymore. He tries to talk as less as he can in his class.

The classes. Those stayed the same. Students were still unable to make simple potions. It was no longer amusing as it once was. It was rather sad. So much not talented people come into his classroom, hoping he can teach them. But he can't. They are to lazy, to talented for some other things to try being good at one more subject. Charms, transfiguration, defence against the dark arts... They think that is enough.

It is to tiring to walk through the classroom anymore to check the potions. He rather remains sitting in his chair, watching at the old photograph. His only comfort. Once or twice he even let a tear escape his eyes. He can't keep it all hidden from the world anyomre. He no longer cares for people and their thoughts about him.

Wherever he goes he is greeted with smiles and kindness. He'll never get used to it. It's too much for him. Kindness reminds him of her. He stopped leaving castle for good. Only once or twice through the year he would leave to obtain some things...

Students know his story. The tale needed to be tell to the world in order to save him from Azkaban. He wouldn't mind being there. At least there would be no kindness, no pity. He would be alone with his own thoughts. Dementors couldn't take anything from him. He almost has no happy memories and those he has he keeps hidden in the back of his mind, scared to recall them and all the sorrow along with them. He was scared of his emotions. Never before he showed any, but after a lifetime spent hiding all his feelings, he grew tired of it. Tired of lying, pretending... It no longer mattered anyway. There he was, completely stripped from his dignity. Everyone knows his tragic story, the story of a poor calls it mockingly the Prince's tale. If he ended up dead, as he should've, he wouldn't mind. But he was still alive and he minded it. He loathed it as much as he did himself.

Once a boy came to him. He recognized that boy. How couldn't he, with those green eyes staring back at him. They showed no pity. They showed love. Not the love which he yearned to see nor was that love in the right person's eyes. The boy stole her eyes just like he stole her life. Was it worth it? Was her sacrifice worth _him_?

They hardly exchanged any words. He hates to use his voice. The boy understood. After giving him a heavy book, the boy disappeared, not wanting to be there when he'll open it. He can't remember if he ever saw that boy again.

Few minutes passed after the boy closed the door after him. Only then he looked at the book. Trying to make his hands work properly, he opened the book and glanced at the first page. A picture was there. After what seemed to be a lifetime of looking at the photograph, he turned the page. Another photograph. He never wanted to know how did the boy get all those pictures of her. It didn't matter.

That book became his only true friend.

The generations of students and professors came and left. Always new students to teach. He had trouble remembering their names. He wasn't that old, but still couldn't make his mind accept new information. The art of potion making was still intact, though he couldn't really make them anymore. Every day looked the same. Every face that appeared in his classroom was soon replaced with a new one and forgotten. A part of him hopes that they remembered something he said, that they indeed learned something about potions. He hopes, but knows the truth.

Time passes.

Another group of first years came to him, eager to be tought. Their eagerness will dissipate with the first failure that they shall encounter. He simply knows it. Even Slytherins aren't as determinated as generations before. It all blended together. Except from a colour of their tie and a badge with their house symbol, the students are all the same, with no traits at all. There was no longer need for bravery, as the Dark Lord was now gone. There was no longer loyality needed, as there was no sides to choose, and therefore no one to stay loyal to. There was no wisdom anymore, because no one cared for the knowledge. There was no more determination, because nothing had to be done.

He often has to answer the riddle in order to get Ravenclaws into their common room and dormitories.

Now he can see a Slytherin boy really trying with his potion. He reminds him of someone, but he can't place his finger on whom precisely. Perhaps this was a kid from his former student? He can't even remember them so clearly anymore. Once or twice when he would go to the Diagon Alley to purchase ingrediences for his students some young people would greet him. He would nod his head and leave. When they would shout after him that he was their professor, when they shouted their names and asked if he rememberes them, he wouldn't reply. It hurt to be incapable of remembering a name or a face. Even the years mattered no more. One year closer to his eventual death, one year closer to his reunion with her. If he'll deserve to see her after he dies... Somehow he doubts he ever redeemed himself completely for all the things he had done.

That boy is familiar. He wants to ask him if he knew his father, but then reminds himself that a name doesn't matter anymore. He wouldn't remember it anyway.

Today's class is over. He waits for the students to hand their vials. He can already tell that most of these potions were awfully made and that there was no use from them at all. The last vial is handed and the potion seems alright. Better than others. He would even dare to say it is perfect, but what was perfection anyway? Perhaps he had forgotten what a perfect potion looked like, forgotten it just like all those faces and names. Still, he glances at the Slytherin boy who handed it.

Logic no longer existed, nor did the time. Years had no meaning, not for him. Things that didn't matter were easily forsaken. Those that mattered remained always with him, like those photographs he gets lost in every day.

In the back of his mind he recognizes the boy. He would recognize those eyes anywhere.


End file.
